


Delicate and Green

by Loudest_Voice



Series: Fire Emblem: 3H fics [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Chess, Gen, Headcanon, Pre-Canon, Racism, Teenagers, Trope: Smart People Automatically Know Chess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: Claude von Riegan meets his grandfather for the first time and is scandalized by the man's taste in furniture.





	Delicate and Green

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaaack. . . in a different fandom, at least for now. I think I've going into and out of a writer's block like ten times this year. If I ever knew how to write, I forgot how. That being said, I just could not deprive the fandom of my riveting Claude headcanons.
> 
> Thank you so much to [luvsanime02](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/pseuds/luvsanime02) for beta reading this, even though it's not her fandom. She didn't get to the last bit, so if there are errors, they are 100% on me.

Fodlan is a spiteful land, with roots twisted up like poisonous snakes slithering through rotting soil. Claude had not expected it, when his mother told him that he could go back to her homeland to prove his worth as a warrior. He's not sure what he expected. Almyran warriors had jeered about the weak-willed nature of Fodlan's hobbled people, but they had also insisted that Claude himself is a coward. Claude will admit to many flaws, but cowardice? It's about as logical as calling him pale just because he has green eyes.

So Claude had allowed himself to hope, despite his better judgment and the snide remarks from his father's warriors. His mother is from Fodlan, and she is the bravest - and most composed - woman Claude has ever known. The culture that created her could not be a den of cowardly fools, so he had announced his intentions to the Almyran court and set out on his journey with nothing but a hug from his mother and a stern nod from his father. And Nader's spies following in the shadows, both to chronicle his progress and to protect Almyra’s prospective future king. 

But Claude refuses to need their protection.

He gets an inkling something is off the first time Duke Riegan turns his slime-green on him. That inkling blooms into certainty when the old man hobbles forward and grasps Claude's chin with as much meanness as his old bones can muster. 

"I didn't expect you'd look so much like a mutt," says the old man, thin lips twisted into a disgusted line under his white mustache.

Claude would say something, but he's still gathering his wits, and besides, the old bastard might try to inspect his teeth. Claude might kill him then, and despite everything, the man is his mother’s father. 

Claude has never been one to indulge in anger. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could feel pride and rage burning him up and filling him with energy. It might help him deal with Fodlan's and Almyra’s. . . everything. The disappointment. And he'll need to deal with all of it. Claude could hardly return home with his tail between his legs. His father will never let him so much as clean a wyvern's droppings, never mind ride one, if he doesn't prove his worth in Fodlan. His mother would still love and defend him, but Claude would never put her in such a position. It wasn't like she could return home to her awful father.

So he bows stiffly to old Duke Riegan. "It is an honor." The words taste like poison, but they're firm.

Duke Riegan makes a tired noise and gestures vaguely at him. "Do what you can with his visage. The Alliance leaders will want to see him by the end of the month."

The servants don't look at him as they lead him through the desolate, gleaming castle. Claude would try to engage them, but his mother warned him that they would be deeply uncomfortable if a noble spoke to them for any reason other than giving an order. Instead, Claude looks at his grandfather's decor, trying to glean whatever he can about the man. There are a lot of gold - or at least gold-colored - trinkets about. The furniture seems to be built from the finest oaks. All the curtains and rugs have golden/yellow embroidered designs that seem to go together, though Claude does not know enough of Fodlan's culture to understand any references. But none of it looks necessary, and most of it looks like it's never been used. All Claude can guess is that Duke Riegan likes to flaunt his wealth. It would be garish in Almyra, where people pride themselves on their ability to survive hardships. The kingdom might look barren of riches to outsiders, but Almyra just has a different definition of what makes a person rich. 

His room is equally extravagant, but cold. It's somehow colder in it than out in the hallways, which were colder than it'd been out on the streets of Fodlan. Either Claude's loneliness is manifesting as a lack of heat, or Duke Riegan's castle is built on the nexus of a blizzard spell. The servant who guided him gestures at the bed, where someone has laid out an outfit in the Fodlanese style. Claude stares at it, then looks at the girl. She does not make eye contact with him.

Claude opens his mouth to say thank you. "You're dismissed," he says instead, mentally patting himself on the back for remembering that he is not supposed to acknowledge that the servants are people.

The girl courtesies deeply, then practically flees the room. 

The moment he hears the door close, Claude lets out a deep sigh. It's been less than a month since he left Almyra. The people of Fodlan treat him as though he is carrying a plague. At first, he had thought it natural that villagers and merchants would fear a stranger carrying a bow, but it had not taken long to realize that they hated him simply because he _looks_ like a foreigner. He doesn't know when he'll be back in Almyra, so he tightens his jaw and walks to the bed, beginning to strip. The pants look acceptable enough, but the shirt and jacket are threaded with elaborate golden nonsense. The artistry of it is obvious, but is there some special occasion tonight? As far as he knows, only Duke Riegan-- 

\--a mirror stops him cold.

Mirrors are rare in Almyra, even in the royal court. An old folktale about a vain woman who lost her soul to her own reflection is partly responsible, but more importantly, mirrors are considered expensive and frivolous Fodlanese toys. Claude has only ever seen one other mirror in his life, when he was six years old and a traveling merchant from Sreng offered it to him as a tribute. His nursemaid had shattered it before he got a good look at his own face. 

Which is a long-winded way of saying that Claude does not know what he looks like. Not with any significant detail, anyway. He’s seen the vaguest hints of his reflection on the surfaces of blades.

A breath that he had not realized he'd been holding wheezes out of him. He swallows, fascinated by the way his throat moves in the mirror. In halting movements, he walks around the bed to stand closer to his own image.

_I am pale,_ he thinks, rather nonsensically. It's not like he doesn't know his own skin tone. 

It's his features. He touches the mirror where his face is reflected, disconcerted by the gentle curve of his upper lip. Then he passes the pad of his index finger over the ridge of his small nose. He looks like his mother, but with dark hair. Delicate. His features are _delicate_. 

The Almyran war priestess had said as much, when he won his first death duel two years ago. He'd gone to her bursting with excitement, hands still stained with his would-be killer's blood. She had sent him away.

_You're too young,_ she'd admonished. _My tattoo would stretch and blur as you grow taller and broader. Come back when you're done cooking._

_Oh, come on! Will you at least tell me what I'll get?_

_I don't know yet. Something delicate, to match your features._

Claude resumes taking off his clothes, somehow expecting that he'll look different in the mirror. He is sixteen years old now, taller and broader, though the priestess thinks he's not done growing yet. No tattoo adorns his skin, but he is developing a healthy musculature. Claude goes through warrior drills every day of his life. His skill with the bow earns him grudging praise. He does not want for meat or fur to get himself through Almyra's cold winters. Still, he can't chase away the trepidation that bubbles in his belly as he observes the image in the mirror. 

His waist is small, and there's less hair on his chest and belly than he expects. It seems like there is less than when he looks down at himself. The bones of his hips jut out, as though he does need to eat more. His gaze strays down to his groin. He shakes his head before some ridiculous notion burrows into his thoughts. It's of acceptable size. Claude has seen warriors in the lake his own age, and he knows for a fact that there are men with smaller dicks than him. There are also some with larger dicks, but that's fine. That's what being _average_ means. And he's not even done growing yet. 

There are more important matters to attend to. Claude's eyes sneak one last look at the mirror. He snorts at himself and returns to the garments that the servant had laid out on the bed. Silk, rather than cotton. Unfit for battle. Claude preys he'll be allowed cotton for his drills, or he'll ruin the fine silks like a sweaty pig. 

The servant returns to get him scarcely an hour later. Claude's slipped into the outfit quickly enough and spent the rest of the time observing his own face in the mirror, watching it as he smiles, glares, and raises his eyebrows. He looks nothing like his father. It's awful. 

"What's your name?" he asks the servant, uncaring if it's proper or not.

"Merla, my lord."

Claude pauses at the title. He does not correct her. "Am I wearing these clothes correctly?"

There a moment of tense silence, then Merla walks forward and fixes the way he's knotted the scarf-thing she left him. Claude watches her calloused hands work the ridiculous ruffles, gaze flitting from the mirror, to her hand, and to her face. She is older than he first assumed. Faint wrinkles adorn the corners of her eyes and lips. Claude hopes that they are laugh lines.

"Undo it," he orders, after she's done with the knot.

After Merla loosens it completely, Claude repeats the trick. It's hard to keep the golden thread facing the right way, but he manages it. He'll get better with practice. “Good?” he asks Merla.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Merla startles and catches his gaze. She has green eyes. They might even look like Claude’s, but she doesn’t look at him long enough that he can be sure.

After a few more excruciating seconds, Merla curtsies. “Duke Riegan requests your presence.”

Claude doubts it was a simple request. “All right.”

With another curtsy, Merla leads him out of the room. 

Duke Riegan is waiting for him in a massive study with a great oak writing desk and a wall covered in books. The ones at the top don’t look reachable and there’s no obvious ladder that could be used to fetch them. That makes absolutely no sense. Claude cannot stop staring at the ridiculous arrangement. Are the books for show? It’s an abhorrent thought. Books are _wisdom,_ the words of warriors past. Putting them in a place where no one can reach them is silencing the dead.

“Boy, do you play chess?” 

“No, sir,” says Claude. He’s heard of it, though. His mother once complained that she had no patience for the stuffy old game. And that she regretted her refusal to learn, as she suspects that his father would have enjoyed it.

“That won’t do,” says Duke Riegan, gesturing him towards a table by a glass window with a chess board on it. The pieces with the horses have red rubies for eyes and the miniature kings and queens have diamonds on their crowns. Is everything in this household needlessly ostentatious? “The Alliance won’t respect a man who can’t play chess.”

It’s not as difficult a game as Claude expected from his mother’s complaints. Duke Riegan beats him handily the first game, but with much more difficulty the second game. Claude’s getting the hang of it. Duke Riegan relies on his queen almost entirely. If he can take her, the game is as good as his. Their third game is a draw. Claude bites his lower lip to suppress a smirk. A warrior must be graceful in victory. Besides, he hasn’t won yet. 

“This is you first time playing,” says Duke Riegan. It isn’t a question.

“Yes, sir.” And he knows he has already won the match that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have a whole story plan, but knowing my track record, it's for the best if I keep it all as one-shots.


End file.
